The Missing Memories
by SweetBrownie
Summary: A man wakes up in a hospital-bed and have no recollection about anything. A small, peculiar man, named Hercules Poirot, tells him that he is Hastings. (Warning for slow progress.)


Eyes blinks open. The dark-blue colored rings stares for only a second, unmoving. Eyelids moves together, leaving only thin streaks. The sight before them is blurry at first, then it sharpens. The man the eyes belongs to lies down on his back on a bed, the cover going up to his chest. His arms lies straight along his sides, they too covered by the cloth.

The room is very bright with the sun coming in thru the window, forcing the eyes to squint; the walls has this light beige color and all the furniture is in sparkling snow-white. There is nothing much in the room, only a small desk, some shelves with books, a door out of the room and a white drape surrounding half of the bed. The small desk stands at the side of the bed, on the opposite side of the wall of white fabric.

The room itself was medium sized, maybe the right size for a bedroom, or at least the half of it the man can see. Thanks to the drape, a part of it is cut off from his view.

"_Where am I?"_

The question comes natural to him, and is the first thought that comes at all. Raising his head, a throb of pain comes from the back of his skull. His one hand comes up from under the cover to touch his forehead on instinct, while his eyes is forced shut.

He freezes. The eyes opens, taking on a perplexed gaze, confusion evident in his face. His fingers brush against the soft gauze and bandage wrapped around his head.

"_What happened to me?"_

No memories comes to him to answer the question. His heartrate quickens just a bit, as the confusion grows and panic starts to sip thru. Eyeing the room over quickly one more time, the man tries to find anything to solve his first question.

"_No, am I… I am in a hospital?"_

Sitting up, the throbbing grows stronger. The man clutches his head with both hands this time, his eyes closing. Opening them again, small black spots dances briefly before him. The throbbing subsides after a second, and the man relaxes his arms and lets them rest on his legs. That's when he discovers that one of his hands are wrapped up in bandages, just like his head. Flexing his fingers, there is a dull sting of pain coming from it, but not as bad as his head.

Growing voices catches his attention, and his face peeks upwards. "It is of the most importance that I see him as soon possible, madame. Only when certain that he is alive will the little grey cells calm down." Heavy influenced by a french dialect, the voice begins its sentence a second before the handle moves downwards, determination evident in the words. Turning his head towards the door just as it opens, the man in the bed have no idea what awaits him.

In the opening is the most peculiar man. Standing very short, this man has black, combed back hair with a small bald spot on the top. The shape of his head reminding of an egg, it is decorated with a pair of dark, chocolate-brown eyes with glasses resting on the nose in-between, and a small black mustache over his mouth. The ends of the mustache goes in small curves upwards, giving the face an even more foreign look to him than he already has.

"Ah, Hastings, mon cher ami," the short man begins while taking a few steps forward in a very stale fashion, making one eyebrow perk up an inch from the man in bed. The voice with the dialect belongs to the new face, and the determination in the voice and face is replaced by a friendly warmth. "You are well."

Before the lying man could speak back, a female nurse comes rushing in behind the newly arrived guest. "You can't just barge in here, you have to wait till the visiting-hour just like everyone else," the woman scowls, irritation in her voice.

The short man turns to her, eyes suddenly determent again and full of anger. "Non-sens! Hercules Poirot has to speak to his friend now when he is awake. The one responsible is still out there, and there is no time to loose!" Beginning to usher her out, the small man shows no signs to care of her shocked protests. When the nurse is finally outside, the guest, named Hercules Poirot if the man in bed have a guess, shuts the door and locks it from the inside.

"Now, Hastings, I want every detail," Poirot demands while walking to the bedside not covered by the drape, the determination still present and never faltering. His eyes seems to dig right thru the only other person left in the room. "Tell me everything!"

The man in the bed gawks at what he just have seen and on the man before him. The confusion grows steadily, as nothing seems to come together very well. "Hastings?" the guest asks, seeing that the man is at a complete lost.

The mention of the name makes the man snap out of his unresponsive state, but the confusion remains. "Hastings?" the man in de bed finally speaks, his throat a bit sore he notes to himself. "Who´s Hastings?"

"It's you, mon ami," Poirot answers, now growing worried. "You are Hastings."

The man, now finally confirming to himself what he suspected for a full minute, that he actually IS Hastings, just stares. No recollection of anything, finding no recognition in anything either, the most serious face is now evident in his face. A whole minute must have passed before Hastings manage to speak again.

"I think it is YOU who should tell ME everything…,"

**(Hercules Poirot's theme-song begins to play)**


End file.
